Clark, Mary Higgins 03 - The Cradle Will Fall Page 14

  "If I tell you that Maryanne is adopted. Is that it?"

  "Yes."

  Jim thought of Maryanne. Whatever the cost, she was worth

  having. "No, she is not adopted. I was present at her birth. I

  filmed it."

  "It is quite unlikely for two brown-eyed parents to have a

  green-eyed child," Richard said flatly. Then he stopped. "Are you

  the baby's father?" he asked quietly.

  "If you mean did Liz have an affair with another man? No. I'd

  stake my life on that."

  "How about artificial insemination?" Richard asked.

  "Liz and I rejected that possibility years ago."

  "Might Liz have changed her mind and not told you?"

  Jim looked away a moment and then said, "I've often wondered

  about Maryanne's coloring, but I haven't let it bother me. That

  baby is everything to us." He looked at Richard. "My wife is the

  most honest person I've ever known. Last month I decided to make

  it easy for her. I said that I'd been wrong about artificial insemination,

  that I could see why people went ahead with it."

  "What did she say?" Richard asked.

  "She said that if I thought she could make a decision like that

  and not tell me, I didn't understand our relationship. I swore I

  didn't mean that; went through hell trying to reassure her. Finally

  she believed me. But, of course, I know she did have artificial insemination.

  She was lying."

  "Or else she wasn't aware of what Highley did to her," Richard

  said flatly.

  AT THE hospital, the admitting clerk was briskly bright. "You

  certainly rate, Mrs. DeMaio. Dr. Highley has given you suite one

  on the third floor of the west wing. That's like going on a vacation.

  You'll never dream you're in a hospital."

  "He said something about that," Katie murmured. She was not

  about to confide her fear of hospitals to this woman.

  "You may be a bit lonesome up there. The other two suites on

  that floor are empty. And Dr. Highley is having the living room

  of your suite redecorated. Why, I don't know. It was done less

  than a year ago. Anyhow, if you want anything, all you have to

  do is press the buzzer. Now here's your wheelchair. We'll just

  whisk you upstairs."

  Katie stared. "I have to use a wheelchair?"

  "Hospital regulations," the admitting clerk said firmly.

  John in a wheelchair going up for chemotherapy. John's body

  shrinking as she watched him die. The antiseptic hospital smell.

  Katie sat down in the chair and closed her eyes. There was no

  turning back. The attendant, a middle-aged volunteer, pushed the

  chair down the corridor to the elevator.

  "You're lucky to have Dr. Highley," she informed Katie. "His

  patients get the best care in the hospital."

  They got off the elevator at the third floor. The corridor was

  carpeted in soft green. Reproductions of Monet and Matisse paintings

  hung on the walls. In spite of herself, Katie was reassured.

  The corridor turned to the right. "You're in the end suite," the

  volunteer explained. "It's kind of far off."

  She wheeled Katie into a bedroom. The walls were ivory, the

  carpet the same soft green as in the corridor. The furniture was

  antique white. Printed draperies in shades of ivory and green

  matched the bedspread. "Oh, this is nice!" Katie exclaimed.

  "I thought you'd like it. The nurse will be in in a few minutes.

  Why don't you just make yourself comfortable?"

  She was gone. Katie undressed, put on a nightgown and warm

  robe. She put her toilet articles in the bathroom and hung her

  clothes in the closet. Suddenly she was swaying. She held on to

  the dresser until the light-headed feeling passed. It was probably

  just the rushing and the aftermath of the trial and, let's face

  it, she thought—apprehension. She was in a hospital. Daddy. John.

  The two people she'd loved best in the world had gone into the

  hospital and died. No matter how she tried, she could not lose

  that terrible feeling of panic.

  There were four doors in the room. The closet door, the bathroom

  door, the one leading to the corridor. The other one must

  go into the living room. She opened it and glanced in. As the admitting

  clerk had said, it was pulled apart. The furniture was in

  the middle of the room, covered with painter's drop cloths.

  She closed the door and walked over to the window. The hospital

  was U-shaped, with the two side wings facing each other

  across the parking lot. On Monday night she'd been exactly opposite

  where she was now. Where was the parking stall she'd dreamed

  about? Oh, of course—that one, over to the side, directly under the

  last light post. There was a car parked there now, a black car, just

  as in her dream. Those wire spokes on the wheels; the way they

  glinted in the light.

  "How are you feeling, Mrs. DeMaio?"

  She spun around. Dr. Highley was standing in the room. A

  young nurse was hovering at his elbow.

  "Oh, you startled me. I'm fine, Doctor."

  He came over to the window and drew the draperies. These

  windows are drafty. Suppose you sit on the bed and let me check

  your pressure. We'll want blood samples too."

  The nurse followed him. Katie noticed that the girl's hands

  were trembling. She was obviously in awe of Dr. Highley.

  The doctor wrapped the pressure cuff around Katie's arm. A

  wave of dizziness made her feel as though the walls of the room

  were receding. She clutched at the mattress.

  "Is there anything wrong?" The doctor's voice was gentle.

  "No, not really. I'm just a touch faint."

  He began to pump the bulb. "Nurse Renge, kindly get a cold

  cloth for Mrs. DeMaio's forehead." He studied the pressure gauge.

  "You're low. Frankly, if you hadn't scheduled this operation, I'm

  sure you'd have had it on an emergency basis."

  The nurse came out of the bathroom with a neatly folded

  cloth. She was biting her lower lip to keep it from quivering. Katie

  felt a rush of sympathy for her. She neither wanted nor needed

  a cold compress, but she let the nurse put it on her forehead. The

  cloth was soaking, and freezing water ran down her hairline. A

  flash of humor raised her spirits. She could just see telling Richard

  about this poor, scared kid who'd practically drowned her.

  Richard. She should have told him she was coming here. She

  wanted him with her now.

  Dr. Highley drew blood from a vein in her right arm and put

  the blood-filled tubes on the tray the nurse held out to him.

  "I want these run through immediately," he said brusquely.

  "Yes, Doctor." The nurse scurried out.

  Dr. Highley sighed. "I'm afraid that timid young woman is on

  desk duty tonight. But you won't require anything special, I'm

  sure. Did you take all the pills I gave you?"

  Katie realized that she had not taken the three-o'clock pill and

  it was now nearly seven. "I'm overdue for the last one. They're in

  my handbag." She glanced at the dresser.

  "Don't get up. I'll hand it to you."

  When she took the bag from him, she unzipped it, fished inside
<
br />   and brought out the small bottle, which she held out to him.

  There were just two pills in it. Dr. Highley poured a glass of water

  from the carafe on the night table. "Take these," he said. He

  handed her the glass and dropped the empty bottle into his pocket.

  Obediently she swallowed the pills, feeling his eyes on her.

  His steel-rimmed glasses glinted under the overhead light. The

  glint. The spokes of the car glinting. There was a blur of red on

  the glass as she laid it down. He noticed it, reached for her hand

  and examined her finger. The tissue had become damp again.

  "What's this?" he asked.

  "Oh, nothing. Just a paper cut. But it keeps bleeding."

  "I see." He stood up. "I've ordered a sleeping pill for later."

  "I really prefer not to take sleeping pills, Doctor."

  "I'm afraid I insist. I want you well rested in the morning. Oh,

  here's your dinner now."

  A thin, sixtyish woman carrying a tray came into the room and

  glanced nervously at the doctor. They're all petrified of him, Katie

  thought. Unlike the usual plastic or metal hospital tray, this one

  was made of white wicker and had a side basket that held the

  evening newspaper. A single red rose stood in a slender vase.

  Double loin lamb chops were carefully arranged on the dinner

  plate. The china was delicate. The attendant turned to go.

  "Wait," Dr. Highley commanded. He said to Katie, "As you

  will see, all my patients are served fare that compares favorably

  with the food in a first-class restaurant." He frowned, then added,

  "However, I would prefer if you did not eat dinner tonight. I've

  come to believe that the longer a patient fasts before surgery, the

  less likelihood she will experience discomfort after it."

  "I'm not at all hungry," Katie said.

  "Fine." He nodded to the attendant. She picked up the tray

  and hurried out.

  "I'll leave you now," Dr. Highley told Katie.

  At the door he paused. "Oh, I regret, your phone apparently

  isn't working. The repairman will take care of it in the morning.

  Is there anyone you expect to call you here tonight? Any visitors?"

  "No. My sister is the only one who knows I'm here, and she's at

  the opera tonight."

  He smiled. "I see. Well, good night, Mrs. DeMaio, and please

  relax. You can trust me to take care of you."

  "I'm sure I can."

  He was gone. She leaned back on the pillow, closing her eyes.

  She was floating somewhere; her body was drifting like . . .

  "Mrs. DeMaio." The young voice was apologetic. Katie opened

  her eyes. It was Nurse Renge carrying a tray with a pill in a small

  paper cup. "You're to take this now. It's the sleeping pill. Dr.

  Highley said I was to stay and be sure you took it."

  "Oh." Katie put the pill in her mouth, swallowed water from her

  carafe. Then she pulled herself up and went into the bathroom

  while the nurse turned down the covers. In the bathroom, she removed

  the sleeping pill from under her tongue. No way, she

  thought. I'd rather be awake than have nightmares. She splashed

  water on her face, brushed her teeth and returned to the bedroom.

  She felt so weak, so vague.

  The nurse helped her into bed. "You really are tired, aren't you?

  Just push the buzzer if you need me for anything."

  "Thank you." Her head was so heavy.

  Nurse Renge went to pull down the shade. "Open the drapes and

  raise the window about an inch, won't you?" Katie murmured. "I

  like fresh air in my bedroom."

  "Certainly. Shall I turn off the light now, Mrs. DeMaio?"

  "Please." She didn't want to do anything except sleep.

  The nurse left. Katie closed her eyes. Minutes passed. Her

  breathing became even. She was not aware of the faint sound when

  the door from the living room began to open.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AFTER Gana Krupshak's excellent pot-roast dinner, Gertrude

  gratefully accepted a generous slice of homemade chocolate cake.

  "I don't usually eat this much," she apologized, "but I haven't

  swallowed a morsel since we found poor Edna."

  Gana nodded soberly. Her husband picked up his coffee cup.

  "I'm gonna watch the Knicks," he announced, not ungraciously.

  He settled himself in the living room in front of the television.

  Gana sighed. "The Knicks . . . the Mets . . . the Giants. . . .

  But at least he's here. When I come home from bingo, I know I'm

  not going into an empty place, like poor Edna always had to."

  "I know." Gertrude thought of her own solitary home, then reflected

  on Nan, her oldest granddaughter. "Gran, why not come

  to dinner?" or "Gran, are you going to be home Sunday? We

  thought we'd drop in to say hello." She could have it a lot worse.

  "Maybe we should go take a look at Edna's place," Gana said.

  "I kind of hate to do it, but it's something you can't avoid."

  "I'll get the key."

  As they hurried across the courtyard, Gana thought of Edna's

  lovely imitation-leopard coat. Maybe she could take it home tonight.

  It was hers.

  Inside the apartment, they became quiet. Inadvertently they

  both stared at the spot where Edna's crumpled body had lain.

  "There's still blood on the radiator," Gana muttered.

  "Yes." Gertrude shook herself. Get this over with.

  Gana went to the closet and removed the leopard coat. It did

  not take them long to finish sharing the contents of the apartment.

  Gana had little interest in the furniture; what Gertrude did not

  want Gana was giving to the Salvation Army, but she was delighted

  when Gertrude suggested she take the silver plate and

  good china. "I guess that's it." Gana sighed. "Except for the jewelry,

  and the police will give that back to us pretty soon."

  The jewelry in the night-table drawer. Gertrude thought of Dr.

  Highley. He had started to open that drawer.

  "That reminds me," she said, "we never did look there. Let's

  make sure we didn't forget anything." She pulled it open. The

  police had removed the jewelry box. But the deep drawer was

  not empty. A scuffed moccasin lay at the bottom of it.

  "Now why would Edna save that thing?" Gana said. She held

  it up. It was stained and out of shape.

  "That's it!" Gertrude cried. "That's what had me mixed up."

  Gana looked mystified, and Gertrude tried to explain. "Mrs.

  DeMaio asked me if Edna called one of the doctors Prince Charming.

  She didn't, of course. But Edna did tell me how Mrs. Lewis

  wore terrible old moccasins for her appointments. The left shoe

  was too loose, and Mrs. Lewis was always walking out of it.

  Edna used to tease her that she must be expecting Prince Charming

  to pick up her glass slipper."

  Gertrude reflected. "I wonder. Could Mrs. Lewis' shoe be what

  Dr. Highley wanted from this drawer? You know, I've half a mind

  to go to Mrs. DeMaio's office and talk to her, or at least leave a

  message. Somehow I feel I shouldn't wait till Monday."

  Gana thought of Gus, who wouldn't have his eyes off the set

  until midnight. Her desire for excitement surged. "Tell you what:

  I'll drive over th
ere with you. Gus'll never know I'm gone."

  DANNYBOY Duke zigzagged across Third Avenue, racing toward

  Fifty-fifth and Second, where he had the car parked. The woman

  had missed her wallet just as he got on the escalator. He'd heard

  her scream, "That man robbed me."

  She had come rushing down the escalator after him, shouting

  and pointing as he went out the door. The security guard would

  probably chase him.

  If he could just get to the car. He couldn't ditch the wallet. It

  was stuffed with bills. He'd seen them, and he needed a fix.

  Was he being followed? He didn't dare look back. He'd call too

  much attention to himself. In a minute he'd be in the car. He'd

  drive home to Jackson Heights and get his fix.

  He looked back. No one running. No cops. Last night had been

  so lousy. The doorman had almost grabbed him when he broke

  into that doctor's car. And what did he get for his risk? No drugs

  in the bag. A medical file, a messy paperweight and an old shoe.

  He'd have to get rid of it all.

  He was at the car. He opened it, slipped in. He put the key into

  the ignition, turned on the engine, then heard the siren as the